


Five Things Fraser and Frannie Turn Out to Have in Common

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Thanks to resonant for beta!
Relationships: Benton Fraser & Francesca Vecchio, background Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski
Comments: 27
Kudos: 28
Collections: due South Seekrit Santa 2020





	Five Things Fraser and Frannie Turn Out to Have in Common

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrincessAmonRae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAmonRae/gifts).



> Thanks to resonant for beta!

**1\. Skin care products**

“Here, Frase, I printed out those mug snaps you wanted,” says Frannie, reaching over Ray Kowalski’s head (and ignoring his muttered, “Shots! Mug  _ shots _ !”) to hand the pile of paper to Fraser.

“Thank you kindly, Francesca.” Fraser holds out the pages to Ray, who’s too busy squinting at the computer screen to notice. 

“How are the hands?” Frannie asks. “Have you been using both moisturizers like I told you?”

“Every morning,” Fraser assures her as he lays the pages out one at a time on the messy desk. “And I must admit, it’s made a big difference. My hands are much less prone to chapping these days, even when I need to have my gloves off outdoors for a prolonged period.”

“What about the hangnails?” Frannie holds out her hand and Fraser obediently gives her his own for inspection. 

“The problem has cleared up.”

“Right, see, what did I tell you? And your skin feels so much softer now. And  _ you _ can keep your trap shut, mister,” Frannie snaps, rounding on Ray, who has looked up from his irritable poking at the keyboard.

“What?” Ray protests. “I was just gonna agree with you. His skin  _ is _ much softer since you got him hooked on your wacky beauty ritual. No complaints here. Long as nobody’s trying to make  _ me _ rub goop all over myself every morning.”

Frannie snickers. Ray scowls at her, which might be intimidating in some other universe where he’s not blushing like a cartoon tomato. Fraser raises an eyebrow and says, cool as a zucchini, “You’re a free agent, of course, but I’ve noticed there are some forms of goop you apply voluntarily.”

Ray goes even redder, which is a neat trick, and stares up at Fraser like he just drowned Ray’s kitten. Frannie chokes on a startled laugh, partly at the look on his face but mostly because she is never, ever going to get used to hearing Fraser make casual sex jokes. Dating Ray has been good for him.

Fraser pauses just long enough to make it obvious that he sees their reactions and knows exactly what he sounded like, then goes on without batting an eyebrow, in that matter-of-fact Mr. Oblivious voice that used to drive Frannie around the kink, “Hair gel, for instance. But a beauty regimen is a highly personal thing, and far be it from me to dictate yours. Speaking of which, I have something for you, Francesca.” He pulls two small, unlabeled containers out of his belt pouch. “I’ve been experimenting with making my own salves to achieve similar hydrating effects. Of course, it’s difficult to obtain certain key ingredients here in Chicago, so I’ve been forced to make some substitutions. This first sample is a combination of—”

“You don’t want to know,” Ray interrupts, wrinkling his nose. “And you especially don’t want to smell. Some of those moose membranes and walrus eyeballs he uses are just—pee-ew.”

“Now really, Ray, walrus eyeballs are not known for their medicinal properties—”

“Whale toes, seal feathers, whatever, you can’t say they don’t stink—”

“And  _ furthermore, _ there is a plethora of herbs and resins whose pleasant natural aromas enhance the—”

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Ten-Dollar-Vocabulary, but you gotta put a sock in it, because look at this.” Ray jabs a thumb at his monitor and Fraser leans in to look. “We gotta beat feet.”

“Yes, indeed,” says Fraser. “Sorry, Francesca, duty calls. But do let me know what you think of these. I’ll be very interested to hear your opinion.”

“ _ Wal-rus eye-balls _ ,” Ray singsongs as the two of them bustle off with Dief at their heels.

Frannie opens the first jar and takes a sniff.

Lavender. Her favorite.

**2\. Dogs**

“We’ve discussed this, Diefenbaker. You are a wild animal, a relentless hunter, a swift runner. The urban environment does not provide sufficient opportunities for exercise and hunting that you require—yes, you did an excellent job of running Mr. Sullivan to ground last week, and Ray certainly appreciated your intervention, for which he and I have both thanked you repeatedly, but one high-speed chase does not a regular exercise regimen make. Oh, for the love of—I don’t know why I bother arguing with you. We both know you’ll enjoy it once we get there.”

Dief makes a growly-moany noise and settles down again to sulk (or at least, Frannie assumes that’s what he does; she can’t actually see him in the rearview mirror). Frannie rolls her eyes as she pulls into the right lane. Frase is right, Dief does always enjoy it when they get there, but for some reason, that doesn’t stop Frase from giving the same lecture every darned time. It’s like he’s turned into Frannie’s ma and they’re driving to Great-Aunt Bianca’s, with Dief as a sulky twelve-year-old Ray and Ante as a teenaged Maria, snootily ignoring her brother’s whining. Except Frannie’s at the wheel instead of squashed in the backseat between her siblings with nowhere to put her feet, and Pop is nowhere to be seen, thank God.

Frannie always drives when they take a field trip to one of the nature preserves, because although Fraser has a license and technically  _ can _ drive in the city, no one in their right mind would let him. Ray Kowalski says you ought to see him handle a snowmobile, or better yet, a dogsled, but he also doesn’t let Fraser behind the wheel of his precious GMO unless he’s bleeding and unconscious (Ray, not Fraser) and maybe not even then. And, funny thing: when Fraser’s riding in a car with Ray Kowalski driving, or with Frannie’s brother Ray, he can’t go two blocks without nagging them about the stop sign or the speed limit or some other traffic rule that nobody in Chicago pays attention to and you’d probably cause a crash if you did, because nobody would be expecting it. But Fraser never says anything about Frannie’s driving.

Sure enough, when they pull into the parking lot and Fraser opens the back door, Dief takes off like a bird out of hell, barking happily for Ante to follow him. Ante isn’t built for running the way Dief is, but she’s not the couch turnip she looks like, either, and she’s just as happy to be outside. She gallops after Dief; then, when he looks back and sees her coming, she veers off and lets him chase her. They end up going around in smaller and smaller circles, until they’re close enough to snap at each other’s tails. They do that for a couple of minutes—snapping but never actually biting—and then they’re suddenly going around in the other direction. They swap back and forth a couple of times, until Dief switches directions and Ante doesn’t, and they end up in a big furry pile on the ground. And for all his bigmouth talk about fierce hunters and exercise programs and the softness of city life, Fraser doesn’t say a word, just stands there watching with a goofy smile.

Of course, it’s up to Frannie to be the responsible killjoy parent when three-thirty rolls around and the dogs are still moseying around the far edge of the clearing, sniffing God-knows-what’s-in-those-bushes. She can’t blame the dogs; they don’t have watches, after all. But you’d think Mr. Punctual could put in a little effort when it comes to keeping to their schedule, instead of leaving it up to her to get this show on the trail.

“All right, everyone, back in the car! C’mon, Dief, get out the iron, hup, hup. Next stop, Pet Spa, and you don’t want to be late for your appointment, do you?”

Ante jumps right into the car, but Dief looks up at Frannie with his head tilted to one side and his tail pointed up.

“Hey, don’t worry, I remember the deal, and I’m sure Fraser does, too. Did Dief stick to his end this month, Frase?”

Fraser purses his lips like he’s just eaten a surprise kumquat, sighs, and admits, “He did. An average of ten kilometers’ run per day, as promised. Not counting on-duty hours.”

“Great! So, we’ll do the usual shampoo and trim, and then it’ll be pedicures all around. You think about what color polish you want, okay? Maybe you and Ante can coordinate, wouldn’t that be cute?”

With a satisfied yip, Dief hops into the backseat. Fraser sighs again, shakes his head, and gets in the car himself, muttering, “What would your ancestors say if they could see you now?”

Dief doesn’t dignify that with a response. Frannie smirks as she backs the car out of the parking lot.

**3\. Country Music**

“Welcome, welcome everyone. Isn’t this a great crowd? We are so pleased to welcome you to the One Liner for our ‘And Now For Something Completely Different’ night. That’s right, tonight we’re bringing you an eclectic lineup of acts from comedy to music to. . .well, let’s not spoil the surprise.”

Peering out from the shadow of the wings—wings, ha, there’s about as much room backstage as in her bedroom closet—Frannie can see Huey yammering through his introduction, with Dewey waiting to get his own lines in. Geez, the lights are bright out there. And when did it get so hot? She can feel a drop of sweat running down her cleavage and her antiperspirant is not doing its job,  _ shit _ , she shouldn’t have worn the sleeveless dress.

“Hoo boy. Okay. Okay. Breathe. You can do this,” she mutters, fanning herself with both hands. Hopefully she used enough hair spray, or she’s just messed up her hairdo on top of everything else,  _ Oh God. _

“First up,” Huey goes on, “We have a musical number in the fine old Country tradition—”

“Old Country tradition?” Dewey cuts in. “You mean, like, Sinatra?”

“No, no, I mean the poetry of the open range, the heartache of the pickup truck—”

“The music of the mule. . .”

Nobody’s laughing. Not that anything Huey and Dewey have said has actually been funny, but she can’t hear the audience at all. Is there anybody out there? How embarrassing is it going to be if she gets out there on stage and the only people in the room are her brother and sister? Although that wouldn’t be as bad as if the room is packed and everybody laughs at her.

“Ready?” murmurs Fraser in her ear, scaring the willies out of her, even though she knew he was there, it’s so squashed back here he’s pretty much standing in her pocket.

“No. This was a horrible mistake. Why did I volunteer to do this? What if I forget the words? What if I come down with laryngitis?”

“The probability seems low,” he replies. “But I suppose in that eventuality, you could mouth the words with Turnbull or I standing behind the curtain to sing for you. Like in  _ Singin’ in the Rain. _ ”

“Are you trying to be funny?” she hisses at him.

“I’m told it’s not my strong suit,” he whispers solemnly. “But not to worry. A few last-minute jitters are completely natural, but I’m sure once you get out there and get caught up in the music. . .well, speaking from my own admittedly limited stage experience, it’s quite stirring.”

“You’ll be magnificent.” Squeezed behind her on the other side, Renfield puts a hand on her shoulder. His warmth immediately soaks into her bare skin. “They’ll hang on your every note.”

She looks from one of them to the other: two big, handsome, solid guys with guitars in their hands. Fraser’s even put on a string tie for the occasion, and Renfield’s decked out in the whole nine miles: cowboy hat, fringed vest and cowboy boots. They’re here to sing backup for her because they love the music, but mostly because they want to help her do something she’s always wanted to do. They believe in her.

Ren turns her so they’re face to face, then stoops to rest his forehead against hers and whispers, in that earnest voice that gives her the shivers every time,

“ _ Oh, baby, just to feel this feeling _ __  
_ That everything that you do gives me _ _  
_ __ It's been too long since somebody whispered. . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” she half-laughs, swatting at his shoulder. “ _ Shut up and kiss me.” _

And he does, like he always does. Sweet and certain, filling her up with the calm of a perfect sunny day at the beach, and at the same time, making her toes tingle.

From onstage, there’s a cymbal crash and Huey saying,“Put your hands together and give a warm welcome to our friend and yours, Francesca Vecchio.”

“And her Mountie backup boys,” Dewey adds, like that’s somehow supposed to be funny. Ha. He  _ wishes _ he had backup like she does.

She takes one last look at Ren’s proud, encouraging, slightly nervous smile—at Fraser, giving her a thumbs-up—smoothes down her sequins one last time, and steps out into the spotlight.

**4\. Leather**

“Geez, Frase, how do you even  _ find _ these places?” Frannie asks, squeezing between a rack of belts and a much taller one of fur coats whose mothball stink makes her eyes water. The shop is a narrow hole-in-the-wall that goes back and back, farther than she can see, what with the dim lighting and the way it’s stuffed to the lungs with just about anything you can name, as long as it’s made from the skin of a dead animal.

“This shop was recommended to me by a leatherworker of my acquaintance,” Fraser replies. “It’s possible to find excellent bargains in a second-hand shop, provided you know how to judge the quality of whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I brought you for,” Frannie tells him. “You can sniff out the good stuff. As far as the actual leather and whether it’ll last and all that. Because your fashion sense, well, let’s just say you don’t have one. No offense.”

“None taken,” he says cheerfully, and she knows he means it. Most stuff, Fraser does his own way for whatever weird reasons he has, and doesn’t mind being teased about it. “And although you spoke metaphorically, the scent of the leather actually does indicate quite a lot about its quality and state of repair.”

“Well, sniff away. Just don’t lick anything, stores don’t like it when customers slobber on the goods. Also, some of these coats look like they might lick you back.”

“Understood.”

“Ooh, here we go!” The next rack is a jackpot of leather jackets. A lot of them are stupid macho motorcycle-type ones with too many zippers or studs and chains, and others are so scuffed and beat-up Frannie can’t imagine why anyone would pay money for them. But this plain black one looks okay, and oh, here’s a brown one that looks a lot like Fraser’s, and a cool reddish one that’s thin and flexible and long like a coat (although it wouldn’t be nearly so long on Renfield, of course). “Here, try these on, Frase. You’re. . .well, maybe not  _ quite _ the same size as Ren, but in the ballfield, anyway.”

“Turnbull is approximately eight centimeters—that is to say, three inches—taller than I am,” Fraser says, shrugging out of his own jacket and laying it carefully on top of the rack on his other side. “However, we need to take into account that his arm span is proportionally a little longer than mine, so to fit him, we’re looking for a sleeve two or even three inches longer than my ideal fit.”

The brown jacket is short in the sleeves even on Fraser. The black one is a little big on him, and Renfield could probably fit into it, but he might look like a kid growing out of last year’s clothes. Also, there are a couple of rips in the lining. The red coat. . .wow.

“Can you move in that?” Frannie asks. “It looks like it’s painted on.”

“Actually, it’s quite flexible.” Fraser demonstrates by flexing his arms, crossing them over his chest, and then doing a couple of jumping jacks and pantomiming shooting a bow and arrow and. . .lassoing a cow, maybe? Any other guy modeling that jacket, he’d be striking action movie poses and pretending to whip a gun out of the back of his pants. But even with the dorky hand gestures and the plaid shirt, Fraser looks pretty badass in that thing. 

“It probably wouldn’t fit Ren, though, huh?” she says regretfully.

“Probably not. Though if you have your heart set on something like this, we could look elsewhere for one in his size.”

It’s tempting, but. . .

“Nah, that’s okay. It’s not really his style anyway.” She does sigh a little as she takes the jacket back from Fraser and replaces it on the rack.

“Not to worry, let’s keep looking.” Fraser turns to check out the rack on his other side. “You never know what you’ll find in a place like—oh.”

_ Oh _ is right. Because that’s not a jacket Fraser’s pulled out; it’s a corset. And, huh, okay, that’s a whole rack of corsets and teddies and other stuff that would be lingerie if it weren’t mostly made of leather. Ha. Leave it to Fraser to find a store that does  _ all _ the kinds of leather, and not even know it.

“Hey, that looks nice,” Frannie says. “Is it as soft as it looks?”

“Hm, yes, it’s excellent quality, actually,” says Fraser, bending it this way and that, rubbing his thumb along the seams, then tugging at it like he’s testing to see if he can rip it apart. “Well-made and well-conditioned. Quite supple.”

He holds it out to her, and wow, the leather really is soft and flexible. It’s got those ribs of wire or bone or whatever, to make it fit close, but it feels like it would be really comfortable to wear. Like having someone’s big, warm hands wrapped around your waist. . .mm. . .

She’s here to get a present for Ren, not to shop for herself, but maybe if it isn’t too expensive. . .She holds it up to herself; it seems like it’s about the right size, although, of course, she can’t really tell without trying it on.

When she looks up at Fraser, he’s poking through the rack of jackets. Pretending that the unmentionables rack doesn’t exist, that he isn’t embarrassed by it, that one piece of leather is the same as another to him.

“What do you think, Frase? Is it me? Here, I’ll try it on, you can tell me what you. . .” She’s halfway out of her jacket—not planning to actually strip topless and try the corset on out here in front of random strangers, of course, she’s just joking so she can see the look on Fraser’s face—when she actually  _ sees _ the look on Fraser’s face.

“Francesca, I—that is—you—” he stammers, licking his bottom lip.

He looks like a squirrel in the headlights, the way he looked that time she showed up in his apartment in her leather and lace. The way he always used to look when women would come on strong to him, especially Frannie herself. She always used to think it was adorable, the way he’d get all flustered and shy. 

But the thing is, since meeting Ren, she knows what it looks like when a guy is sweet and shy and actually wants to make time with her. And Fraser’s squirrel-in-the-headlights routine. . .isn’t that. Never was. That wasn’t him being old-fashioned and embarrassed, that was him actually being afraid of her. And she said that to him, she said  _ Don’t be afraid _ as she peeled off her coat to give him a front-row view of her cleavage, but it was a joke. She was trying to tease him out of his shyness, to let him know it was okay to want her, that he wouldn’t be taking advantage, whatever her brother might have told him. Because she never imagined until this second that Fraser, who isn’t afraid of mob bosses or bombs or  _ anything, _ could ever in a million years be afraid of  _ her. _

“Just kidding,” she says. Her voice comes out softer than she was going for. “You know I’m just fooling around. . .right, Fraser?”

His eyes come up to meet hers, and uncomfortable as it is, she makes herself keep looking back at him. She feels more naked than if she’d actually taken her shirt off, but she lets him look as long as he wants, until he nods slowly and she can see all that nervous energy bleed out of him.

“Yes, of course,” he says. Then he looks away, which lets her do the same. She’s still got the corset clutched in her hands—she’s probably left sweaty fingerprints all over it. Shoot, she might  _ have _ to buy it now. 

“Hey. . .listen, Frase?” She stares down at the corset’s ribs, the stitching of the seams, the laces under her fingers. “Um. . .I’m sorry. For, you know. That time at your apartment. I was. . .rude. And unfair to you. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. That I couldn’t. . .that I didn’t. . .”

“It’s okay. Not your fault. Anyway, it all turned out okay—you know, me and Ren, you and Ray, so. . .”

“Yes. Indeed.”

She peeks over at him. He peeks back. Now they’re looking each other in the eye again. He doesn’t look scared or unhappy anymore. Maybe a little worried; maybe a little hopeful.

“Friends?”

“Undoubtedly,” he says, with a serious face like he’s taking an oath in court. He holds out his hand for her to shake, which is ridiculous and also adorable. She shakes, then stands on her toes and leans in to kiss his cheek. 

“And if you want my recommendation, I expect that garment will give good value for money, in terms of the reaction of its target audience,” Fraser adds. “And I estimate that it will fit you, though you’d be wise to verify that empirically.”

“I’ll be right back.” She hands him her jacket and purse and goes to try on the corset.

**5\. Pond Hockey**

A couple of days after New Year’s, Fraser announces that the ice on their favorite pond is finally thick enough to skate on. 

Ray Kowalski brings the hockey gear (beat up, second- or third-hand, but apparently indestructible). Renfield brings thermoses of hot chocolate and three kinds of homemade cookies and two first aid kits. Frannie’s brother brings folding chairs and blankets for the adults who aren’t playing. Maria and Tony bring their kids and milk crates to block off one end of the pond for the kids to skate on. Watching them is Tony’s job, because Ma plants her chair right by the flag that Fraser puts up to mark the otherwise-invisible center line, so she can cheer every time something cool happens. (She knows the game as well as any of them, but family loyalty means she’s always rooting for both teams.) Lieutenant Welsh sits beside her; he’s their referee. Frannie originally invited him half as a joke, not expecting him to actually turn up, but there he is, every time, calling the shots and laying smackdown on anyone who argues too much (ahem, Ray, and Ray, and Stella).

There isn’t really any fair way to divide up the teams because Fraser is like, two or three times better than any of the rest of them. On the other hand, Frannie’s brother and Ren both, frankly, suck rocks. Ray still loses his balance on the ice if you look at him funny, while Ren always somehow manages to be in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time. He ends up falling down a lot, too, but only because he’s always crashing into somebody. Ray gets a lot of razzing from Ray Kowalski and Tony (which is rich, considering Tony can’t skate and doesn’t even bother to try) and from Elaine (which is only fair, given how much bullcrap Elaine used to put up with from Ray when she was a civilian aide). But nobody teases Ren. They all know Frannie and Fraser wouldn’t stand for it, but more important, they all know that it wouldn’t be any fun because Ren already feels bad about letting down the national honor of Canada. Honestly, Frannie sometimes wishes she could convince him to join Ma in the cheering section or help Tony keep the kids from killing each other. But he loves hockey, and he loves playing, and he loves feeling like he’s part of the team, part of the family, which he absolutely  _ is. _

So he plays, and Ray plays, which is fine. It’s all just for fun anyway. But the point is, that means that women vs. men is one of the fairer ways to divide up the teams, because none of the women are Fraser, but none of them actually suck, either. Not even Maria, who isn’t fast or aggressive but can defend a goal like nobody’s business. 

Their other ace in the pit is the fact that no matter how honestly willing the guys are to play co-ed, they’re afraid to be as rough with the women as they are with each other. Obviously, this isn’t like professional hockey, which is basically football on ice skates, with lots of full-body tackling plus extra bonus fist-fights. But house rules do allow for body checking as long as it’s torso-only, and the guys have been known to knock each other on their asses that way. They all hesitate to do the same to the women, though, even Fraser, who is otherwise a surprisingly ruthless player.

That’s a weakness the women have learned to take advantage of. Hey, it’s called strategy! Hockey is a very intellectual sport!

So, when Fraser slides the puck neatly away from Elaine and skims towards the goal, Frannie skates to intercept him like a freight train. Wham! She smacks full-on into his chest, her padded helmet bouncing against his shoulder, her teeth rattling from the impact. He staggers from the impact and grabs her shoulder to keep her from rebounding over backwards. They do a little almost-tango, trying not to fall down—and they  _ don’t _ fall down. But meanwhile, Stella zooms in and sweeps the puck out from between their feet. By the time Fraser and Frannie are disentangled and facing the right way—towards the guys’ goal—Stella’s shooting the puck between Ray’s feet. 

Elaine and Maria cheer and skate over to pound Stella on the back. On shore, Christina yells, “Go team!”, Ma stands up to applaud, beaming, and even Welsh looks like he might actually be cracking a smile.

Frannie looks up at Fraser, who grins like a maniac and high-fives her as though they’re on the same team.


End file.
